


Bury Fort, Stonehenge, and other notable landmarks

by id_ten_it



Series: Inktober [10]
Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Egyptology, Helicopters, Inktober, Inktober 2020, M/M, The Detectorists (TV Show), gratuitous research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: The boys have been living together for some time now, and Peter has been thinking.
Relationships: Peter Ginn/Alex Langlands
Series: Inktober [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003845
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Bury Fort, Stonehenge, and other notable landmarks

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Inktober prompt nr 27 (nasty) from the alternative Inktober pompt list found [here](https://vkelleyart.tumblr.com/post/630712063324504064/we-are-doing-this-thing-yall-so-it-was), with thanks for the originator for doing the hard yards and providing a better alternative to the original.
> 
> Peter's knitting inspired by [subito's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito) Yuletide Letter. ["There is this picture of Peter in a christmas jumper and i feel like there is a story there."](https://lincolnimp.dreamwidth.org/3344.html#cutid3)
> 
> Many thanks to [003chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/positively_dashed/pseuds/003chan) who beta'd, nudged the boys back into character, and is generally awesome.

Alex is seated in his armchair, one leg crossed at the ankle to balance his laptop, right hand manipulating essays and left curled around a mug of tea.  
Peter, changed into clean clothes if not pristine under them, is sprawled on the floor with a large map of ancient Egypt spread out in front of him. He isn’t exactly looking for anything, but there’s rumours of another dig and once he is done with the Tudors he’s keen to get some time back in with the Egyptians. There’s no point waiting any more, things are as stable there as they’ll ever get; archaeology will continue and Peter wants to be involved.

Around them, their little cottage sighs in the wind and settles onto the foundations. They’ve worked away at blending modern – hot running water, gas hob – with traditional – thatch, wattle-and-daub out buildings, large fireplace for heat and light and occasional forays into toast and stew – and everyone who comes by says it feels homely. It can’t feel anything but lived in with artefacts and half-complete crafts strewn in untidy clumps like Alex’s first broadsown field.  
Peter is jerked out of contemplation by Alex’s laptop snicking closed and the man himself standing with various clicks and pops. “Tea?”  
“Ta”  
The academic prods the fire on the way past, an indulgence really at this time of year, and ruffles greying curls while not disturbing the map at all. Peter grunts, smiling, laying a faint pencil line onto the map and carefully noting down his thoughts.

By the time Alex returns with two pottery mugs brimming with hot tea, Peter is on his chair, knitting in hand, telly on.  
“Perfect timing” He smiles, as the gentle lyrics break through the ads for things neither of them feel they need.  
“He sounds nearly as good as you” Alex drops a kiss on Peter’s hair, returning to his seat and pulling over his own little tray so he can work on the broad outline of a wooden spoon he wants to whittle.  
“I felt the touch of the kings/ and the breath of the wind” Peter sings with perfect timing, just to see his partner roll his eyes and threaten to turn off the box.  
“Don’t you dare. I want to know if they find the treasure.”  
“They’re serious detectorists Peter. It’s not about buried treasure.”  
“In the same way you and I never look for treasure.”  
“D’you think I’d be doing this if I knew where there was treasure?” Alex rolls his eyes fondly.  
“I thought I was your treasure.” Peter grinned, eyes softening at his partner’s blush.  
“You’re talking over the show. Hush.”  
Peter coincidentally chooses that moment to hush, because he is counting stitches, not because Alex told him to or because Terry has just found a bomb.

The next morning it is raining, so Peter stays inside, replying to emails about possible book readings and school visits and hounding a mate about the possibility of Egypt.  
Egypt is almost a bribe. Alex has agreed to come back for filming the next series, now his PhD is out of the way, and Peter and Ruth have compromised and agreed to write the book. Peter loves the work, but his first love was Egypt and the steady drift west over the last seven years leaves him missing it. Missing the heat and the sand and the biting insects, the unending sand and the noise and the occasional forays into the bizarrely dangerous (and the dangerous bazaar). He’s even missed the sand.  
Alex is about to spend a month traipsing around mapping more of Wessex and Peter loves his enthusiasm, he really does, but if given a choice between obsessively mapping a field in England and obsessively mapping a patch of dirt in Egypt, well.  
And he isn’t getting any younger, it’s silly to put these things off. Especially if Alex is serious about this book idea that Ruth has been dangling in front of him.  
So Peter plans, and hounds, and looks for the nearest medical centre that will give him a booster for Diphtheria and Hep. Alex is seated in their porch, whistling tunefully and whittling at whatever he started the night before; Peter isn’t sure he should know. This is what passes as a normal weekday morning in the Langlands-Ginn home.

Standing waiting for the kettle to boil, Peter has the sort of epiphany one has when eventually putting a name on something one has known for a long time. Surrounded by PG Tips and pondering dark or milk chocolate on his hob nob, he suddenly realises this is _it_. This is exactly what he wants and now, as of March, he can have it. Keeping a weather eye out for Alex butting in, selecting one of each biscuit for safety, Peter thumbs through his phone till he finds the blacksmith’s details from all those years ago. Telling himself it doesn’t matter if nobody answers, he dials.

“I remember” The barely-familiar voice on the other end of the line says, “Filming and so on. I remember.” Heartened, Peter explains what he would like, reassures there’ll be only him, apologises if it is unusual. A date is suggested, a second date. “Hang on a mo’” Peter requests, going to the front door and cracking it open. “We’re not doing anything next Wednesday are we?” He asks, jiggling the phone in what he fervently hopes is the same as his usual ‘Might give a talk then’ gesture.  
Hands guiltily still and smothering the wood he is working, Alex grunts. “Not that I know of. I’m teaching. Go on then.”  
“Sorry about that” Peter apologises, shutting the door again and fishing for a pen, “Wednesday’s perfect. Yeah, ten. I’ll bring bikkies. Like fruit cake?”  
“I love it” Alex stage-whispers, coming in and leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Peter waves a hand and finishes the call quickly. “It’s lunch time” Alex defends himself, “And since when did you go about offering fruit cake to people?”  
“I offer you fruit cake on the regular.” Peter starts slicing the remains of a loaf, obediently preparing for the aforementioned lunch.  
“You offer me all sorts of things ‘on the regular’ that you’d better not be offering anyone else, Fonz.” Alex sets out pickle and cheese and jam, and selects four kiwifruit with the sort of interest others reserve for wine.  
“Hang on. Are they gold or green?”  
“Gold. They’re even balder than an American Eagle.”  
“Alright then.” Peter still rolls his eyes at the old joke, joining Alex for lunch and then remembering tea and having to rush back to collect the mugs. “Looking a bit chipped” He murmurs, considering the pottery thoughtfully.  
“I blame your Beavers and Cubs” his partner returns, spreading beetroot pickle with a lavish hand, “Things are always in a pickle when they leave.”  
“As opposed to you right now”  
“Has anyone told you you aren’t at all funny?” Alex retorts, ruefully licking pickle from his wrist and crinkling fond eyes at Peter.  
“At least I’m not a staid academic” Peter ripostes, rescuing the pickle and daringly placing it atop his cheese. Alex rolls his eyes at the action and the words but doesn’t reply. The mugs will be replaced when they need to be, not when they start showing the inevitability of wear. They eat in silence for a while, letting their appetite take centre stage.

Slightly sated, Alex changes tack. “Any news on Egypt?”  
“Nothing significant” Peter sighs, “I think I’ve done about as much as I can do.”  
“I thought that might be what Wednesday was about.”  
“No that’s a meeting about next term.” Peter has checked his diary; that meeting is the day before so it will be an easy lie.  
“Those kids are lucky. I’d be much more interested in archaeology if there was some hunk to teach it to me.” Alex smiles.  
Peter rolls his eyes at the old line. “So would I” the words are one of their many rituals, binding them together. “But I guess you’ll have to do. In fact” He adds, ad-libbing now but still on theme, “There’s a ritual I think we’ve neglected so far this summer.”  
“That doesn’t sound like us.”  
“You haven’t heard what it is yet” Obligatory pause for Alex to throw a kiwifruit at his head. “I understand” Peter continues, in his most professorial tone, “That at this time of the year many members of the local community, from all walks of life, mingle in one of several key buildings throughout the town centre, sampling wares and re-negotiating their interpersonal relationships. This is widely suspected to prove an integral part of establishing and maintaining the hierarchy of society. The aristocracy, for example, demonstrate their largess by contributing more funds and providing certain entertainments. The lower classes generally consume the cheaper beverages and often prevail late into the evening, especially if the weather be fine.”  
Alex is laughing by the end of it, fruit forgotten on his plate. As Peter winds up and leans back in his chair in conscious imitation of Alex’s Head of School, he is rewarded with a round of applause and those sweetest of words, “Very well. We’ll go to the pub. Tonight?”  
“Why put off to tomorrow what I can enjoy today?”  
“You’d be so be lucky. Honestly.” But Alex is still grinning, and ten minutes later he sternly removes himself to his desk to get ahead on work, leaving Peter to do the same, the better to enjoy the evening off together. Left alone, Peter slopes outside. There are probably more emails to answer and more slides to prepare, but with the official start of summer at the Langlands-Ginn household, Peter has a bike to work on.

***

They’re sitting down to another round of _The Detectorists_ when Alex smiles down at Peter and asks “So how’s next term looking?”  
“Busy” Peter smiles back up, curls ticking the back of his chair, “Chance to make a bit of cash before I go off and have fun.”  
“You don’t have fun at the schools?”  
“I’d have more fun if there were more hot males teaching history. What happened to them all, Alex?”  
“They went on to be lecturers.” Alex winks, whisking out to the kitchen and returning with hot mugs of tea, “I’ll have you know one of my students is quite certain that I’m the most attractive of the junior lecturers.”  
“Tell you that a lot do they?”  
“First time” The man smiles shyly, seating himself and picking up the remote, “I’m old enough to be her…well. Her Uncle at least. She didn’t realise I was standing behind her till it was too late. For either of us.”  
Peter guffaws, eyes sliding shut and head tilting back as he chortles. “At least someone appreciates you.”  
“Yeah. You should try being appreciated some time. S’nice.” Right on time, the romantic words are interrupted with the telly, and Peter, singing _climb through the briar and bramble_. Alex can’t – doesn’t want to – hide a smile, reaching out to take Peter’s hand for a moment.

After, Peter isn’t entirely sure he could explain the intricacies of the show. Luckily, it isn’t as complex as _Game of Thrones_. As he works away on the jumper he is making (to prove a point to his Cubs, to keep his skills current, to slightly reclaim an activity that in many places has traditionally been male), the result of yesterday’s trip to the blacksmith sits in his brain. As they retire that evening, Peter runs appreciative fingers through Alex’s curls. “Doing anything Saturday?”  
“If I say ‘no’ and you tell me I’m ‘doing you’, I shan’t be doing you.” Alex chuckles, turning into the touch. Must be time for a haircut if Peter can do this.  
“Mmm. I was going to suggest dinner out. Explore somewhere. Come back late n’laze about in bed all the next morning.” Peter tugs the tiniest amount and is rewarded with a mouth significantly closer to his.  
Breathlessly, Alex breaks apart. “Yeah” He smiles, shifting closer, “In case that wasn’t clear.”  
“Smart man” Peter approves.

***

Friday night Alex works late, heading to the pub for a quiz with colleagues and arriving home sober and unimpressed with their score. Peter, as is his wont on such nights, is already in bed with a nightcap, book, and the gentle sounds of a nasty summer storm beating at the windows. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary occurs, and Alex is asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow. Peter follows eventually, lying on his side watching the familiar rise and fall of Alex’s chest and hoping he isn’t about to balls everything up. When he does sleep, it is to dream the same dream he had during lambing all those years ago.

So far, except in dreams, the children haven’t eventuated. Peter and Alex haven’t talked more than in generalities, both taking the lead from the other. Nevertheless, there always seem to be children generally around. Alex blames Peter’s boyish disregard for keeping clean, Peter blames Alex’s enticing experiments in field and kitchen.  
Between Beavers and Cubs, talks at local schools, allowing the youngest children of mature students to explore the office while their parent talks with The Lecturer, enticing people into various craft groups, the couple have met literally hundreds of children, many of them local, many of them more than once. The ones they know best join their siblings’ children in hailing Uncle ‘Lex and Uncle Pete. Peter would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself, at least, that the addition of a legal wedding might assist them in some nebulous future if they wanted to upgrade from Uncle to Dad.  
That Friday night there are only two changes to the dream and both live on the fourth left finger of the men. Peter smiles in his sleep, reaching for Alex and soothing as soon as his hand is stretched over the familiar curve of Alex’s right hip.

Alex slips out of bed the next morning, unable to help a soft smile as Peter grumbles and rolls into himself. Shutting the bedroom door silently, his bare chest is soon protected by an apron and he is ready for a proper breakfast. He’d gone into Pritchett’s the last time he was in Salisbury, and now the hot and heady smell of proper fresh-blood black pudding fills the kitchen. They don’t have animals at the cottage but the bacon at Pritchett’s is as close to home-kill as makes no difference. Alex is just adding butter and brown sauce to the table and checking on the coffee when warm arms encircled him.  
“M’n’ng” Peter’s beard nuzzles against the delicate skin under the taller man’s ear, making Alex smile.  
“Hmm.”  
The arms tighten briefly, then Peter’s hands drop, gently turning Alex for better access. “What’s the occasion?”  
“What’s the occasion for dinner?”  
“Been a while.” Peter darts a glance upwards, still sometimes the bashful man Alex loved and despaired over in equal amounts. “Love ya.”  
“Well if we’re spending the day out exploring, love, a big breakfast is very important.” The tender moment is broken as the toast pops, Alex breaking away to pile their plates high and Peter parading coffee and tea to the table with undisguised glee.

Peter tucks in as soon as Alex is seated, pausing mid-bite and looking up in shock. “This is…Alex? Is this _genuine_ blood sausage?”  
Alex nods, grinning and half-swallowing, “Got it in Salisbury the other day.”  
“You’re _amazing_.” Peter gropes blindly under the table, rubbing his foot against Alex’s ankle. “Amazing” he repeats, before respectfully devouring the black pudding and everything else on his plate. Like Peter earlier, Alex blushes at the compliment.  
They talk of little, but nonetheless treasure the conversation together. Eventually it is past time to finish their drinks and prepare to leave. “What do you reckon? The downs? Or we could finally go to the Wallops?”  
“If you’re alright looking at helicopters for a morning.”  
“You like helicopters, and I’ll drag you up the hill to the kiwi after.”  
“I’d like that.” Peter smiles back, downing his coffee. “Go on. At least I’m wearing a shirt; you must be freezing.” Peter rubs his fingers together, warm from the mug, then tenderly runs them over his favourite chest.  
“I’ve just eaten about a thousand calories!” Alex laughs, trying to suck his stomach in and look vaguely attractive.  
Peter rumbles agreement, apparently not particularly concerned.

They do eventually get underway, but the grass outside the Army Aviation Museum is overrun with children by the time they arrive, still sniggering over Nether Wallop.

It’s not that Alex dislikes machinery; he is more than capable of using a computer and conducting running repairs on any car, tractor, or bicycle that you’d care to send his way. He just doesn’t light up at it the same way Peter does. When they get to the far hangar and Peter spies the apache, grinning at Alex like the first time they found anything on a dig, Alex grins back though he knows it isn’t nearly as blinding as Peter’s.

It is a sleek machine, elegantly balanced and dripping with what Peter enthusiastically describes as ‘hard points’. It reminds Alex a little of a crouching panther, sleekly muscled and prepared to kill.

Terrible, to think this is the last thing some people have seen.  
  


Peter is stalking slowly down the display, reading signs and looking up to attach information to aircraft, or to admire their lines. He makes a point to stop off at the small display on early aircraft on the way out, purely – Alex suspects – to discuss the marriage of traditional crafts like basket weaving with modern technology like heavier-than-air-flight. Alex buys him a fridge magnet of the attack helicopters, and offers to carry any books out Peter might want. “Just this one” Peter grins, hefting his purchase and dropping it in the car before taking Alex’s hand and walking reverently up to the monument.

Alex presses close for the first minute, concentrating on the familiar feel of Peter’s warm, solid, body against his. When Peter relaxes a little, he allows himself to take in the monument properly. The slit for the sun to move through echoing the more famous monument across the fields. The screeds and screeds of names. The different places around the world.  
There is one name, on its own with a small ‘t’ next to it, in 1993, that draws his attention. A training accident; a new cadet perhaps eager to prove himself in Bosnia or glad to have missed the Gulf War. Alex has a sudden realisation that through quirks of history he and Peter are one of the few generations not to expect to fight, and that even if they’d chosen to life is random enough that they could have died here at home where they should have been safe.  
Rubbing his fingers over the name, he stands and crosses to Peter, silently letting him know it is now Peter’s choice when they leave.  
After another couple of breaths, Peter uncrosses his thumbs, nods to the emblem in the middle of the monument, and quietly leaves the circle, patting it on his way out.

Their sombre walk back to the carpark is interrupted with playing children and a helicopter circling the airfield like an angry bee. “Look! A Blackhawk!” Peter is enraptured, so Alex waits and when he is sick of the helicopter he admires Peter instead; he can admire Peter for far longer than Peter can admire any piece of machinery, even a helicopter.

They barely bother with lunch after their substantial breakfast, munching nectarines and licking pear juice from their forearms as they trudge to see the Bulford Kiwi. Both have significant experience in drawing plans and accurately scaling objects down to fit onto notebooks, and the ability of the men literally stranded on the other side of the world to do the reverse, on a scruffy hillside, is impressive. Peter has talked at the school, and briefly shows it to Alex, and they buy coffee and petrol nearby before turning to home. “We should go to New Zealand” Alex suggests, stretching out in the front seat. Peter nods, comfortable following Alex wherever, but his mind is elsewhere. Sensing this, his partner subsides, turning on the radio and sipping his drink.

By this stage Peter is beginning to worry. He’d thought there’d be a natural space, a moment, a view, a pause somewhere, to ask the question, but there’s been nothing. They’re bowling down the road, listening to a frankly insipid show on the radio, when he realises he may have to make a moment. Scratching his brain he remembers Bury Fort, a regular stopping point when they’re driving this way, and mutters this to a soporific Alex while following the road. Luckily there’s space in the layby and he pulls up and chivvies Alex out with what is no doubt a significant amount of nervous energy. They walk up through the woodland, Peter making a point to slow down and suggest some ash for Alex’s next project-that-requires-ash (it had taken several weeks to get the right amount last time he’d wanted some), a thoughtfulness that gets the laughter it deserves.

“Oh good choice Fonz” Alex murmurs when they’re on top of the fort, admiring the view and apparently all alone in the world “Very good choice”  
Something in Peter screams _you’ve made a moment_ and he’s thrusting the hand-forged iron work ring at Alex with no second invitation. “I’d like to make another” He claims, as smoothly as if he’s practiced his lines, “Marry me?” He waves the ring in emphasis. Peter’s eyes are even wider than Alex’s. His hair is somehow disheveled from the ring waving; he is breathing nervously. An irrelevant breeze teases his shirt but his hands are too shaky to manage the gift one-handed. Peter stands silent, unable to move. He bites his lip and honestly believes it could all come crashing down.

Then Alex is in his arms and reassuring him _yes_ and they’re kissing and Peter can’t recall ever being happier.

“Better try it” He eventually manages, when things have returned to a more coherent state.  
“Do I want to know how you sized me?”  
“Took your finger while you were sleeping.” Peter grins, laughing as Alex rolls his eyes and cuffs him. Next he is carefully – tenderly – slipping the ring on and breathing out when it fits perfectly. Honesty propels him to clarify “Just wrapped some string round your finger one night. A deep sleeper, I’ve always said so.”  
Alex rolls his eyes, then holds the ring up to them. His voice is reverential, “You made this. For me.”  
“Well…yes” Peter blinks up at his fiancé. As if he’d go and buy something this important when he could make it. As if he’d rouse suspicion by suddenly whittling alongside Alex. Of course he made a ring.  
“Astonishing.” Alex whispers, carefully sliding it back onto his finger and curling his hands into Peter’s hair, “Fantastic.”   
There’s all sorts of words and thoughts jumbling for Peter to verbalise, but Alex’s broad hands steady him, guide him, and his focus returns to the man who will always lead him where he needs to be.

“Can’t believe you proposed” Alex whispers, running his thumb over Peter’s cheekbone, “I’m still getting over the fact that we can.” What can Peter say to that? In the end he doesn’t bother trying to use his words.


End file.
